Behind
the charms of Andalucia, its landscapes and towns, its monuments,
mesquites and water gardens lies - only dimly perceived - its Poetry,
the soul of an exceptional symbiosis of three cultures, Arabic,
Jewish and Christian.

Very few of us are able to read Arabic.
A slightly larger number read Sephardic Hebrew. The ordinary reader
has to depend on translations - and most of these are flat-footed and
uninspiring. One reason is that formal Arabic poetry, from which
derives all Andalusian and Mozarabic lyrics of the 9th to 14th
century, uses highly stereo-typed images that are alien to our
Western sensibilities: gazelles, the rosy cheeks amd pearly teeth of
the beloved, and other metaphors which are repeated again and again.
The Andalusian poets and especially the Sephardic ones are, as
Raimond Scheindlin writes, in love with Beauty, some of them with God
in the Sufic sense, very few with a real person, may it be a woman or
a man.

In this situation the slim volume of "Andalusian
Poetry" tranlated into English by Christopher Middleton and
Leticia Garza-Falcón must be considered a felicitous miracle.
Well-remembered Arabic poems suddenly spring into an unimagined,
vibrant life by the choice of their words. This is not the place to
critically analyse their renditions. Neither of them reads Arabic or
Hebrew; they translated from already existing Spanish versions.
Middleton describes this adventure in loving detail.

My
collection of their poems is dedicated to these two people in
gratitude for opening an unimagined treasure to the general reader.

Ibn
'Abd RabbihiCordoba, 860-940

Ahmad
ibn Muhammad ibn `Abd Rabbih was a Moslem writer and poet who
descended from a freed slave of Hisham I, the second Spanish Umayyad
emir. He enjoyed a great reputation for learning and eloquence.
Little is known about his life. He was a friend of many Umayyad
princes and was employed as an official panegyrist at the Umayyad
court. (Wikipedia)

Abu
Muhammad Ali ibn Ahmad ibn Said ibn Hazm was an Andalusian-Arab
philosopher, literateur, psychologist, historian, jurist and
theologian born in Córdoba. He was a leading proponent of the Zahiri
school of Islamic thought and produced a reported 400 works of which
only 40 still survive, covering a range of topics such as Islamic
jurisprudence, logic, history, ethics, comparative religion, and
theology, as well as the "The
Ring of the Dove" on the art of love.

His
grandfather and father both held high positions in the court of the
Umayyad Caliph Hisham II Ibn Hazm served as a minister in the Umayyad
government, under the Caliphs of Córdoba, and was known to have
worked under Al-Mansur Ibn Abi Aamir, Hajib (Grand Vizier) to the
last of the Ummayad caliphs, Hisham III.

After the death of
grand vizier al-Muzaffar in 1008 the Caliphate of Cordoba became
embroiled in a civil war that lasted until 1031 resulting in its
collapse and the emergence of many smaller states called the Taifa's.
Despite that his father died in prison in 1012, Ibn Hazm continued to
support the Umayyads. Homeless, he wandered from Taifa to Taifa and
was frequently imprisoned. He became an embittered apologist of the
ideals of the Cordovan Caliphat. (Commentary modified from Wikipedia)

From throats. Delicious thoseDays we spent while
fateSlept. There was peace, I mean,

And us, thieves of
pleasure.Now only flowersWithfrost bent stems I see;

At
my eyes their vividCenters pull, they gazeBack at me, seeing
me

Without sleep, and a lightFlickers through their
cups,In sympathy, I think.

The sun-baked rose-buds
inBushes, rememberHow their color had lit

Our morning
air; and stillBreaths of wind dispenseAt break of day, as
then,

Perfume they gather upFrom waterlilies'Half open
drowsy eyes.

Such fresh memoriesOf you these few
thingsWaken in my mind. For

Faraway as you areIn this
passion's gripI persist with a sigh

And pine to be at
oneWith you. Please God noCalm or oblivion

Will occupy
my heart,Or close it. ListenTo the shiver of wings

At
your side—it is myDesire, and still, stillI am shaking with
it [...]

Pure love we once exchanged,It was an
unfencedField and we ran there, free

Like horses. But
aloneI now can lay claimTo have kept faith. You left,

Left
this place. In sorrowTo be here again,l am loving you.

Abu
al-Waleed Ahmad Ibn Zaydún al-Makhzumi was an Arab poet of Cordoba
and Seville. He grew up during the decline of the Umayyad caliphate
and was involved in the political life of his age.

His
romantic and literary life was dominated by his relationship with the
poetess Wallada bint al-Mustakfi, the daughter of the Ummayad Caliph
Muhammad III of Cordoba. For political reasons Princess Wallada
eventually terminated their relationship.

He sought refuge
with Abbad II of Seville and Abbad's son al-Mu'tamid. He was able to
return home for a period after al-Mu'tamid conquered Cordoba. Much of
his life was spent in exile and the themes of lost youth and
nostalgia for his city are present in many of his poems.

Wait for me whenever darkness falls,For night I see
contains a secret best.If the heavens felt this love I feel for
you,The sun would not shine, nor the moon rise,Nor would the
stars launch out upon their journey.

***Must separation
mean we have no way to meet ?Ay! Lovers all moan about their
troubles.For me it is a winter not a try sting time,Crouching
over the hot coals of desire.If we're apart, nothing can be
otherwise.How soon just the very thing I fearedWas what my
destiny delivered. Night after nightAnd separation going on and
on and on, Nor does my being patient free me fromThe shackles
of my longing. Please GodThere may be winter rains pelting
copiously downTo irrigate the earth where you now dwell.

Had
you any respect for the love between us,You would not choose that
slave of mine to love.From a branch flowering in beauty you
turnTo a branch that bears no fruit.You know lam the moon at
full,But worse luck for meIt's Jupiter you have fallen
for.

They'll call you the Hexagon, an epithetProperly
yours even after you drop dead:Pederast, pimp, adulterer,Gigolo,
cuckold, cheat.

Princess
Wallada bint al-Mustakfi was the daughter of Muhammad III of Córdoba,
one of the last Umayyad Cordoban caliphs, who came to power in 1024
after assassinating the previous caliph Abderraman V, he was
assassinated himself two years later in Uclés.

She spent her
early childhood during the high period of the Caliphate of Córdoba,
under the rule of Al-Mansur Ibn Abi Aamir. Her adolescent years came
during the tumultuous period following the eventual succession of
Aamir's son Sanchuelo, who in his attempts to seize power from Hisham
II, plunged the caliphate into civil war.

As Muhammad III had
no male heir, Wallada inherited his properties, and used them to open
a palace and literary hall in Córdoba. There she offered instruction
in poetry and the arts of love to women of all classes, from those of
noble birth to slaves purchased by Wallada herself. Some of the great
poets and intellectuals of the time were enamored with her.

A lover living still,Fortune exalts him most;If
death became his fate—One look from you could kill—Has
not the ghost of aChance to retaliate.

"Hold up,"
is what they say,"Patience, endure, be strong."This
patience, is it, pray,Circular ? Is it long ?Its color green,
I ask,Or yellow as aloe husk ?

Hard labor is this
love,Distressing its ordeal.Now I am skin and bone,My
wardrobe down-at-heel,Share with me, if you can,One third of
what I feel.

If lam counting right,Three gifts of God
secureNo woman, quite, like you:A being that is white,A
being that is pure,A being constant too.

DISPARAGERS
OF LOVE

Disparagers of love, now hear my
song;Though you be of a mind to do love wrong,Believe me,
moonlight is the stuff whereofMy lady's limbs are made. I offer
proof.Something I saw, full moon in her, alive,Cool in her
balanced body, took me captive;Her beauty, young, her anklets,
with a thrillThey pierced my heart, to cause my every ill.A
lover is a man amazed. DesireCan drive him mad the moment he's on
fire;Heartsick, when he has had the thing he wants;Worse, if
he's deceived by what enchants.A lover knows he's not the only
one.His lady's garden gate, she keeps it open:A
challenge—passion hurts him even more.Whom will she choose ?
Whom will she ignore ?I'm of a kind a woman's body charmsSo
to the quick, it's Eden in her arms:Absolute beauty being all we
seek,We can be melted by a touch of magic.As for the moon, so
for the sun : from bothShe draws her power; moon pearls grace her
mouth,Solar fire crimsons her lips, and yetShe's not
ambiguous when her heart is set:Burning in my reflections, day by
day,In every act of mine she has her say;Even when, if ever,
she's at peace,You'll never find her supine in the least.Such
is my proven moon, my lady love.Yet of myself she did once
disapprove:Pointing to the marks my teeth had madeAcross her
breast, then eyeing me, she said:"Easy does it, not too
quick,I like it slow, and nothing new.Custom knows a thing or
two,It's to custom we should stick:Festina lente, that's the
trick—Come at me slow, I'll come with you."

When you come to Silves, Abu
Bakr, my friend,Greet with my burning love the spirits who
dwellIn that place, and ask if any remember me.Say this young
man still sighs for the white palace,The Alcazar of Lattices,
where men like lions,Warriors live, as in a wild beast's den,And
in soft boudoirs women who are beautiful.Sheltered under the wing
of darkness,How many nights I spent with girls there.Slender
at the waist, hips round and abundant,Tawny hair or golden,
deeper than a sword bladeOr black lance their charms would run me
through.How many nights, too, in the river's loop I spentWith
a graceful slave girl for my companion;The curve of her bracelet
imitated the river.She poured out for me the wine of her eyes;Or
again the wine of her nook she poured for me;Another time it was
the wine of her lips she poured.When her white fingers played
among lute strings,I felt a thrill as when a sword hits and
clipsClean through the sinews of a foe in combat.When with a
languid look she'd shake off her robe,Like a ray of light
surrendering her body was.The very air around her shivered with
desire.It was a rose opening out of a rosebud.

TO
RUMAYKIYYA

The heart beats on - and will not stop;passion
is large - and does not hide:fears come down - like drops of
rain;the body is scorched - and turns yellow:if this is it -
when she is with me,how would it be - if we 're apart ?

By
her indifference - I am broken:dark-eyed gazelle - among her
leafage,stars that burn - on her horizon,depth of night -
shining moon,rock, then jonquil - in her garden,bushes too -
that spread perfume,all know me downcast, - wasted as a man, and
are concerned - by my appearance,how it mirrors - my state of
mind;they ask if I - may not be well,flaming desire - might
burn me out.

Woman, you do - your lover wrongthat he
should look - as you 've been told.You say : "What hurts ? -
What's going on ?What do you want - but cannot wait for ?You're
less than just - to doubt my love,everyone knows it, - here or
distant".

God! I am sick, - sick with the lovethat
makes, beside you, - others puny.My body frets. - Give thought to
this:I want to see you - and I cannot.Injustice calls - to
God for pardon:ask him to pardon - your injustice.

'AMMAR'S
KINSMEN

The most mighty lords and sovereignsThe crowned
heads of bygone timeThose who had more incense than they had
smoke

Burning only the former when they bivouacked on the
roadThose who alleviated their kin with largesseThose who
decapitated tyrantsThose who from the cradle coveted gloryThose
who contended in battle after battleTake their size and they have
no measureCompare them and they alone were like
emperorsNoble

Place hope in them and see your hope
accomplishedLive close to them and be their mostFortunate
neighborShannabus weeps for themWith tears crashing like
wavesAnd the lofty palace with balconiesGlittering in
arboreal greenWeeps for ShannabusNo sun laughs there unless
you fancyGold water washing its facadesThe singers whose
lutes sound in yardsWeep

In those yards while birds chirp.0
palace in splendor how did the blows of DestinyUndo you ?You
house no nations though tough baronsFought their way through your
tall wallsWhat lions were leaping up to guard the gatesWith
lance and sword defending you

How many men of handsome
appearance in combatHad their white features covered with cloaks
of black pitchHow many brave men sank in the turmoilFacing
their foe in fire's heatWhen the glory of'Ammar's tribe was
waxingMaking the lifespan of his foes a whole lot littler ?

This
satire ridicules the vainglory of Ibn Ammar (who was nine years older
than Al-Mu'tamid and might well, earlier on, have been his lover).
Shannabus was a village on the outskirts of Seville, and Ibn Ammar
came from humble origins. Over the years Al-Mu'tamid exchanged
several satires with him, before eventually killing him, in a fit of
rage, with a battle-axe.

Peace be with himwhose joys belong
nowSomewhere else,whose comfortersHave left him

Like
an oven, hotmy heart, for JosephIs not here. And atYehuda's
deathI knowmy own destruction.The otherbrother's
griefGrows into mine.His bitter sorrowClings to my
soul.My heart's wallsLike his, are broken.

I would
give my soulto bring Senor MoiseSome relief.I too will
not ceaseWeeping.Calamities ofThe hard visiondescended
on us all,No end of them,light as an eagleOnce, now
consuming,so heavily, me,Your friend.

One
calamityinflicts on usDespair now. Invisionary sleepI
will see himstill. OthersAnd brothersI will be mindful
of,But him I'll seehere no more.I lift up my eyes,in
heaven find him,An angel of God,before me, revealed.

Ay!
The good manhas been shutInto the dust.We put the lights
out.Pleasure ceases,as if the next thingStopped. As ifa
great rain, withoutForewarning,stopped. I wantTo see his
lights.They shine no more.

Fair-crested, cosmic joy, city of the great
King,My soul yearns for you from the edge of the West.My
yearning love is stirred when I remember the East of yore,Your
Glory exiled, your Shrine ruined. Would that I were borne to you
on eagle's wingsSo I could drench your dust with my tears until
they blend. I seek you even though your King is away, and in
place ofYour balm of Gilead are venomous snakes and scorpions.
Shall I not cherish and kiss your stones,The taste of your
clods sweeter to my mouth than honey?

Translated
from the Hebrew by Ross Brann and excerpted in idem, “Judah
Halevi,” in Menocal et al., eds., The literature of al-Andalus.

MY
HEART IS IN THE EAST

My heart is in the East but I am at the
edge of the West.How can I savor what I eat, how find it sweet?
How can I fulfill my vows and obligations whileZion is in
Christendom's fetter and I am in the shackle of Islam? It would
be easy for me to leave behind all the opulence of Spain;It would
be glorious for me to see the dust of the ruined Shrine!

TO
THE WESTERN WIND

This wind of yours, O West, is allperfume
-- it has the scent of spikenardand apple in its wings. Wind, you
comefrom the storehouse of spice-merchants,and not from the
common storehouseof winds. You lift up the swallow'swings,
you set me free, you are like thepurest perfume, fresh from a
bunch ofmyrrh. Everyone here longs for you; byyour good
graces, they ride over the seaupon a mere plank. Oh, do not
abandonthe ship, when the day draws to its endor when it
begins. Smooth out theocean, break a path through the seauntil
you reach the holy mountains, andthere subside. Rebuke the east
windthat whips up the sea and turns it intoa boiling
cauldron. But how can the wind help, for it is aprisoner of
the Rock -- sometimes heldback and sometimes let loose? OnlyGod
can grant my deepest wish: for Heis the maker of high mountains
andthe creator of winds!

Translated
from the Hebrew by T. Carmi, in The Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse (New
York, 1981): 350-51.

COMELY
GAZELLE

Comely gazellepity my heartforever it dwells
in you;Give this a thought:your distance nowis my
misfortune.Truly my eyes havetrouble enough, stilldazed
by your splendor;Fanged snakeshatched from your cheekssprang
at me, stung.Breasts of hershold me in thrall:from her
heart of stoneTwo apples grownhard to the core, or stoodlike
lances akimbo,Herfresfar offablaze in me, drinkmy blood
through her mouth.Small though she be,gazelle, her eyesfrank
as you pleaseBreaking religion'sback. God's laws, me—I
am beyond help.Have you lookedinfo a lions heart ? Well,her
eyelid hasSuch puissanceat kill, her piercing arrow glance
hits bone.One day, with wine,with love, like a drunkI
cried out for joy:There she stood,actual, in the shapeof
certain messages.Three times I heard,or twice, from her
delegates;peace on the table,Her terms utterlyswept me
away, her favorgave me fresh spirit.One day in a gardenmy
hands in air brushedover her breasts'.Coaxing, plunging
meinto dismay then, "No," she said:"Amigo, do
not touch, this tender bodikin,still it is sucha fragile
thing."

Her
beauty, luminous and singular,The carefree splendor of it made my
day.She gave me wine to drink: it was her mouthIntoxicated
me. The crystal heldAmbrosia, her lips their pearls;Glistening
liquid.Her rosy cheeks gave off an airy glow,I kissed and
kissed them, till, the frenzy over,She was a slender branch the
breeze has bent;I gave my shoulder to her for a pillow,My
arms around her held the surge of dawn.

The
procuress, said to be a bad lotand she's proud of itMore
close than night a man on the roadshe'll hug a secretTiptoes
into anyone's home,how far inside, nobody knowsPolite, with a
nod for everyoneand a kind word along with itBack and forth
she scuttles,no bother to folks next doorNever a second to
fold her cloak,it outflaps any battle flagCan tell a crime
from a crafty trickso long as she finds it useful toNo idea
where the mosque isbut knows the taverns inside outForever
smiling, very devout,jokes and tales up every sleeveArithmetic
at her fingertips,abracadabras, horoscopesNever a cent for
shoes of her ownbut well-off where most are notHer palaver so
smoothshe'd matchmake water and fire in a wink.

0 noble son of the Caliph,of
the most excellent imam,a festival to celebrate yourselfbrings
what you desire.She whom you love comes to visit you,combining
ceremony with satisfaction,and to recapturepleasures lost and
past.

*** Perhaps
this poem and the next were written after 1162, for to Abu Ja'far she
writes:

***

You come first, but
enemies,unjust men who know more and more,continually say
that you do not.He who has power over other men of his
time-seekers of glory who stop at nothing—can he be ignored
?

***

When
nineteen (1154) Hafsa, a slave girl, had begun a celebrated love
affair with the poet Abu Ja'far Ahmad ibn Malik ibn Saí'd. Two years
later she fell in love with the young governor of Granada, a
dark-skinned, very young man. Hafsa is justifying her interest in the
governor, whose full name was Abu Sa'id 'Utman ibn Abd al-Mu'min. But
Abu Ja'far, though a gallant himself, must have been jealous.

To
make matters worse, he was 'Utman's secretary, his privy councillor.
The two poems epitomize a dangerous scene: the Almohade governor,
'Utman, still young, his position fragile; Abu Ja'far resenting him
for reasons political and personal; Hafsa trying to protect Abu
Ja'far, while cultivating 'Utman for whatever allures (charm, power,
liberality) she might have divined in him.

In 1162 there is a
crisis: the Almohade power in Granada is overthrown for a few months
by rebel forces led by Ibn Mardanis. The crisis over and Almohade
authority restored, Abu Ja'far's father, who had opposed the
Alrnohades (and whose brother had been governor of Granada under the
previous Almoravide regime) is duly thrown into prison. During the
coup, Abu Ja'far himself would have gone over to the rebels.

To
none of the following poems (first Abu Ja'far's, then poems 7 through
16) can we assign exact dates within the political scene suggested by
Hafsa's poems 3 and 4. (omitted, see reference below). All together,
however, they indicate a convergence of interests that are by no
means ghostly. Passion and politics are set on a collision course.

Abu
Ja'far writes to Hafsa about a night in the park called Hawr
Mu'ammal:

(6)

May
God watch over a night spent without anyone watching,A night
which hid us in the Hawr Mu'ammal.From Nayd an aroma was wafted
over,Shivering with the scent of carnations.A turtle dove was
cooing in the trees.Myrtle branches stooped over the stream.And
the garden was as if delightedBy what was present: embraces,
kisses, caresses.

Hafsa
replies with a counterpoem:

(7)

By
your life! The garden was not glad because we met.Rather it
showed us rancor and envy.The river did not clap its hands to
have us close,And the dove sang of its aches and pains.You're
not thinking straight for once:Everywhere those people are up to
no good.I think the sky showed us its starsOnly to spy on us.

The
order in which poems 8 through 15 were written is not known, but 16
and 17 can be assumed to be the last two. Hafsa's phrasing remains
conventional enough. Her own voice, however, her pulse, the urgency
of her feelings, become increasingly poignant as the political
situation worsens.

She would also have known in advance the
dangers besetting Abu Ja'far's entire family: his brother, Abd al
Rahman, actually joined Ibn Mahdanis after the revolt had been put
down, but was captured, imprisoned for a time, then executed.

(8)

Those
lips I praise because I knowWhat I am saying, what I mean.I
do them justice, tell no lies.From them I've drunk and what I
drankTasted better than any wine.

(9)

Come
and see my versesBe thrilled by their pearlsWhich will adorn
your earsIt is the way a gardenCannot go to youBut sends
you its perfume

(10)

I
am sending my message:It opens the cups of the flowersAnd
makes the doves speak in the treesAs it goes to a distant friend
who dwellsIn my very bodyAlthough my eyes have no sight of
him.Do not think that absence makes me forget you.God, that
will never happen.

(11)

If
he were not a star,Eyes that enjoyed his glow,Would shadow
shroud them so,Now he is far ?i Salud '.from one who's
sad,Yet may it still addressVirtues and powers above,Which
as they onward moveTook from me all I hadOf fortune,
happiness.

(12)

In
the still of the nightAsk the cloud with its beating heartIf
it has spent the night with my love, remembering me:Ay, it has
given my heartIts heat and, heavens above,Given the lids of
my eyes this rainThat pours down my cheeks.

(13)

Shall
I come to you or will it be my place ?My heart always gives in to
your desire.You will Ie safe from the sun's heat,And you will
not be thirstyWhen you make me welcome:My lips are water
sweet and fresh, And the branches of my braids give deep
shade.Answer me now: you'll be doing her no favor, Yamil,If
you do what your Butayna is waiting for.

The
throat of a gazelle has come to visit youUnder the black of its
hair the moon appearsIts eyes took shape when Babylon was
enchantedIts saliva surpasses wineIts cheeks put roses to
shameIts teeth have eclipsed pearls

(15)

0
you who used to be the most sensitive of menBefore fate lifted
you up to let you fallIn love with a black womanWho is
altogether like the night, which hides beautyAnd with darkness
obscures the radiance of a face,Nor in that night can any blond
thing be seen,Tell me, you being so well acquaintedWith
connoisseurs of extrinsic beauty,By God, would anyone ever fall
in love with a gardenWhere no roses are, nor blossoms of the
orange tree ?

(l6)

I
will keep you jealouslywhere no spies can see youAnd from
yourself, your timeand from the place you liveAnd though till
the crack of doomI hide you in my eyesStill it will not be
enough for me.

(17)

They
threaten me because I wear mourningFor a lover of mine they put
to death.God have mercy on anyone who is liberal with
tearsWeeping for a man slaughtered by his rivals,And may the
clouds of the afternoon,With such generosity as was his,Water
the earth wherever she may go.

Of
earth and water, daughterYielding her abundanceOnly if you
waitFinger-licking at her castle gatePale she seems, her
havenHard of access, a GreekVirgin, who lingersBehind a
curtain of lances

Talla',
a friend of Al-Mu'tamid, was a Mahdi, a religious/political refugee
from Granada during the uprising against the Berber rule in 1162. He
was beheaded in Silves after the revolt failed. (see Hafsa
Ar-Rakuniyya in Granada)

Photo:
GE reveals that the RIO DE LA MIEL actually exists, it is not a
metaphor! Photo from Panoramio.

Ibn
Safar al-MariniAlmeria, a refugee from Cordova , 12th century

THE
GUADALQUIVIR IN FLOOD

A
squall came over the riverTearing its tunicAnd the river
burst its banksTo catch and thrump the culpritBut laughing
doves poked funAt its thick froth overcoatAnd back to be
veiled in its bed again,Abashed, the river shrank

Photo:
the Salinas of Almeria (not the flooded Qualdalquivir in Cordova),
The church had been a mosque before the 15th cent. by
Gruetze80, Panoramio

Ibn
ZamrakGranada, 1333 - 1393

INSCRIPTION
IN THE ALHAMBRA

I
am a garden graced by every beauty :See my splendor, then you
will know my being.For Mohammad, my king, and in his nameThe
hottest things, past or to come, I equal:Of me, a work sublime,
Fortune desiresThat I outshine all other monuments.What
pleasure I provide for eyes to see!In me, any noble man will take
fresh heart:Like an amulet the Pleiades protect him,The magic
of the breeze is his defender.A shining dome, peerless, here
displaysEvident splendors and more secret ones.Gemini extends
to it a touching hand,Moon comes to parley, stars clustering
thereTurn no longer in the sky's blue wheel:In the two
courts, submissively, they lingerTo be of service to their lord,
like slaves.It is no marvel that the stars should err,Moving
across their marks and boundaries,And are disposed to serve my
sovereign lord,Since all who serve him glory in his glory.The
palace portico, so beautifulIt bids to rival heaven's very
vault;Clothed in a woven raiment fine as thisYou can forget
the busy looms of Yemen.See what arches mount upon its roofAnd
spring from columns burnished by the lightLike the celestial
spheres that turn and turnAbove the luminous column of the
dawn.Altogether the columns are so beautifulThat every tongue
is telling their renown;Black the shadow-'darkened cornice
cutsAcross the fair light thrown by snowy marble;Such
opalescent shimmers swarm about,You'd say, for all their size,
they are of pearl.Never have we seen a palace rise so high,With
such a clarity, such expanse of outline;Never did a garden brim
like this with flowers,Fruits more sweet to taste or more
perfumed.It pays the fee required of beauty's criticTwice and
in two varieties of coin:For if, at dawn, an early breeze will
tossInto his hands drachmas of light galore,Later, in the
thick of tree and shrub,With coins of gold the sun will lavish
him.What sired these kindred things ? A victory:Still none
can match the lineage of the king.